Hard Times
by a tattered rose
Summary: If life had taught Cal one thing, it was that there are always trials and tribulations. Hard times to live through, if you will. And they're usually his fault. This is most certainly one of those times.


A/N: Written for the riacal community on LiveJournal. June Fanfic Challenge. Theme : Escapism.

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It was the source of many of his most memorable experiences, but there were times he really wished he didn't have one. Wished at least he weren't quite so well endowed. Bit of a sticky wicket all told. At times like these. Tricky times. Exciting times. Hard times.

He knew well enough that he wasn't the only one with this particular problem. It was fairly common, especially among the young. At least he wasn't that, anymore. Say what you like about growing older, nothing beats experience when you are shooting for an outcome that will prove you are the best. Tempering the emotional response is crucial, timing the payout critical. Passion was necessary – of course it was, but control... Now control was what kept you in the game to go another round.

Not that control was enough. Had to have skill. Movement. Now there was something so many failed to utilize. Simply being in the right state at the right time in the right place with the right company is merely an opportunity for greatness. The greatness itself comes from finessing those factors. Taking what you need to get going, filtering through all the sensory input for the most provocative tokens and reacting instantly, in tempo as they come. Give back as good as you get, but with a twist. Anticipate needs and get there first and never, ever stop to think. Not when you're in the middle. Like playing the piano, fingers might slur over the tricky bits but to stop forward momentum is to fail.

And failure was certain not only if one couldn't keep it going, keep it up. Being too erratic, or too predictable: either shortcoming was fatal. Deficiencies overcome only by years of practice and conditioning. The self-discipline to not indulge oneself too early or too freely, and to push past exhaustion or complacency to keep alert every moment. Basking was for the aftermath.

Happily, he was rarely charged with being too monotonous. Of all his faults, that was one with which he was rarely troubled. His natural state was to be in motion. He found it impossible not to attune himself to every little hint, every little change. The slightest signal set him off and that, as it were, was the predicament. So familiar was the path, so enticing, that he sometimes found himself in the middle of a conquest, too far along to stop (never stop) but having gone down a path (no doubt effective) that nevertheless...

… Might not have been the wisest course of action. No matter how enjoyable, there were consequences. Another lesson learned with time.

Of course he felt most alive when it was aroused and in charge. Nature of the human condition. And his body craved the response like water, readily cheering him onwards where others might shy away. Every nerve ending firing, skin fairly tingling with anticipation, hairs standing on end, straining, quivering... Senses heightened: sights, sounds, smells, tastes all immediate and undiluted. Life in concentrate. A high. One he never wanted to come down from. One that only got better as he moved deeper, testing and probing and settling into rhythms that morphed and changed at the slightest signal. Only one goal in mind. Every resource intent on reaching that point, that climax.

The longer it took, the harder he had to work, the more that was demanded of him the higher he climbed. How long could he keep balanced on the edge? Which moment would be the moment to tip?What would be that final move, the stroke that sent them over the edge?

And yet, there was that small matter of living so fully in the moment, and only looking so far ahead. That little, tiny voice that piped up while he was busy continuing on at full steam and noted "well, really got yourself into it this time, didn't you?" Because all the skills in the world, all the experience and discipline, were nothing without that one, dangerous factor. The one that didn't just get him into trouble, but led him deeper into human depravity than the most talented suspense writer could devise.

Cal Lightman was cursed with an overly large, easily aroused, inexhaustible imagination.

And times like this, he really wished he didn't have one. Or at least that he wasn't so well endowed. Else he never would have thought to taunt the suspect like this. It had been the tiniest twitch at the edge of the eye, the click of a tooth when he'd said the pronoun "my."

Now here he was, not even able to watch for results as the telling reaction would play out on the cameras they had surreptitiously installed in the security office. Another five minutes, perhaps, until they had what they needed. He could hold out that long. Groaning for the effect (he had to) he twisted his back against the stall door, giving their voyeur a better view of Ria's long, bare leg as it pressed in between his.

Her lips against his weren't a problem, merely soft and moist and prone to drawing unexpectedly off down his neck or to close over his earlobe. Routine. Her hands weren't a problem, drawing down his chest and tugging on his belt. Pleasurable, certainly, but not insurmountable. Even her leg, pushing his thighs apart with alacrity beyond her years, was a gambit he could appreciate as performance. What was a problem were the humming noises she was making in the back of her throat. He was fairly certain she didn't know she was making them, but after she had chosen to wiggle her hips against his, he was more than fairly certain she knew how he was being affected.

It was his bloody imagination. Not sufficiently occupied by the little performance, it was supplementing unnecessarily, providing details beyond what would show up on camera. All he could see, behind his eyelids, was Ria sprawled on top of him in his bed, doing all those things her voice ought to be accompanying. All he could see, when he opened his eyes, were familiar angles of skin, soft lines of hair, that precise tone of her skin that was only millimeters away from what was rapidly becoming an even larger problem.

He jumped as a nail scratched him just underneath his waistband. The humming, thank god, stopped. For a brief moment his eyes caught an unfamiliar smile- fierce, predatory (yes, he was in trouble). Then the humming started again, even louder, as the nail traced a path straight downwards.

Times like these, he really wished he wasn't quite so good. It was hard, being him.

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A/N2: Prompt: Imagination


End file.
